


I'll Get Bi (with a little help from my friends)

by telemachus



Series: This, I.... [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Erestor is too clever, Maybe - Freeform, Merry & Pippin are not, Multi, Questioning, Sam is a very straightforward hobbit, angsty Frodo, combs and combing, grim Aragorn, listening (and not listening) to your friends' advice, maybe not, will they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Legolas gifts his comb, even though he claimed it was by accident, Gimli is thrown into confusion.....</p><p>because they are just friends, aren't they?<br/>just good friends.<br/>aren't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Get Bi (with a little help from my friends)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This, I wish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786433) by [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/pseuds/hope91). 



> Happy Birthday, Hope!
> 
> This was meant to be a continuation of the story you wrote for my birthday, only - well - its more of a companion. I'm not sure where it goes next - *passes baton*. (& please tell me if you hate it & don't want it associated).
> 
> The story in question, "This, I wish" is a very beautiful, angsty piece. This - is different. 
> 
> The title - is lighthearted, and possibly a little - shall we say - simplistic? But it was just too good to resist I'm afraid.

Bloody hobbits and their stupid fucking birthday traditions.

Oh sweet shit, now what am I going to do?

Poor elf.

Oh Mahal.

Poor sodding elf.

By the time I have thought all this, and looked up, and fuck knows what I am going to say, but – it doesn't matter. 

Bloody elf has fucked off.

All evening it is the same – and only now do I realise how much he has slowed himself down, been careful to stay near, stay where I can see him, keep up with him over the years – all bloody evening he is like a fucking will-o-the-wisp. Impossible to speak to.

Probably a good thing – after all, what the bloody fucking shit am I going to say?

Thank you for your comb, which I know and you know means you – more than fancy me – but, um, no thanks.

He’s my friend – best friend.

Brother-in-arms.

But – he’s an elf.

Two problems in that sentence. 

‘He’ – oh, he probably doesn't realise, dwarves all look the same to him, but – while I admit there’s been a few moments of ‘warrior’s comfort’ – for choice, I like tits and cunt, not arse and cock.

And – ‘elf’. Tall, skinny, hairless, pointy ears, sings too much, and just – plain weird.

Now some, some might like that.

Me – not so much.

Still, I think, I had better say something. 

But when I finally do corner him – he denies it, claims it was a mistake.

As though I am likely to believe even he is daft enough to wrap a comb – of all things, a comb – thinking it a flintstone.

For the love of Durin’s forge.

As if I don’t know something of the – weirdness – that surrounds elves and their bloody combs. 

Once, long ago, I picked it up – just to hand it to him – thought he had forgotten it – and oh shit the fuss. 

So – no. I don’t buy the “mistake” theory.

But I suppose it gives me time to think.

 

 

He’s quiet, subdued like, the whole of the rest of the time.

Avoids me.

It’s like – back at the beginning. Back when he loathed me – when I loathed him.

When all we saw was our fathers, all we heard was their words.

And – shit.

I don’t want to – marry him – I don’t really want to fuck him – but I don’t want to lose my friend.

There has to be a way round – surely.

 

 

 

Well, I think, after a couple of days of sodding stupid elf not even able to look at me, we’re in Hobbiton, bloody hobbits’ traditions caused this – let’s see if they have a way out of it.

I try Sam first – he’s the most sensible of them.

He looks at me blankly,

“But – tis obvious Legolas loves you,” he says, “always has, and you him. Nothing needs doing, seems to me. Just – make sure as the girls you both choose is happy to spend time in each other’s lands. Or happy for the two of you to go off wandering, like as you do.”

I don’t think he has understood, so I try and say it clearer.

He laughs,

“Oh, aren’t elves the odd ones? You’d think he’d have grown out of that stage long since. Well, if he has a crush on you – you just have to wait it out. Come to his senses soon enough, I daresay – especially with you getting older.”

Thanks Sam.

I nod. Maybe.

But – no, I don’t think so. Elves only love once, don’t they?

Shit.

Well, I think, Frodo knows a bit more about elves – and about the world – than Sam. Maybe he’ll come up with something.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you ask me,” he says, and looks away, and for a moment I think there is colour in his cheeks, then he goes on, “just – oh just ignore it, and get married, and – and move him in with you. Carry on as friends and never speak of it.”

He shrugs, looks back,

“He’ll get used to it. He’ll have to.” And away again, “Works for us.”

Oh.

Maybe, I say again. I wonder if I should say more, but from the set look in his eye, I think not.

Well.

I suppose that plan is at least feasible.

Doesn't seem kind though. And – what if it’s true, what I heard once – that elves can just – die of a broken heart?

Don’t want that. Not if there’s a way round it.

Can’t quite believe I am doing this, but – oh what have I got to lose? – I ask Merry and Pippin their advice.

“Get drunk enough, it won’t seem such a bad idea,” that’s Merry, “after all, day to day, not much to change. Just tell him dwarves don’t fuck often – do it a few times, then claim you’re too old. He won’t know. And – well – if you were going to marry you would have by now, so it’s not as though you lose anything.”

What a depressing thought.

I look at him, he shrugs, looks away, and I remember he is married – a sensible, not-quite-arranged marriage. And no children.

Pippin laughs, 

“No, don’t be ridiculous, but really – if he is so lonely as to have a crush on you – why not help him along? Wait til you’re back in his Ithilien – get him drunk – didn’t you say there was an elf there who clearly wanted him? If he was drunk, fond of this elf, they fall into bed, there. Done. Plenty of marriages made that way, turn out as good as any other. Besides an elf’d make him happier than you will – and not die either.”

Thanks, Pippin.

But – oh bloody Mahal. What it is to be a hobbit. Strange folk. Pragmatic, I suppose. 

I don’t say anything. Hobbits are as hobbits are. 

A dwarf might survive that – hurt, but survive. An elf, I don’t think so.

Fucking Durin. The more I think about it, the more I realise just how hideous an idea that is.

Shit. What a horrendous thing to do to my best friend.

Don’t really like the idea of seeing him all wrapped up round he-who-I-prefer-not-to-name either.

No.

No, I should have known those two would be no bloody use.

 

 

 

Elf still avoiding me.

Journey home not looking much fun.

Then – quite by chance – we meet the King’s household. Some kind of bloody inspection tour of this part of his kingdom, apparently.

Thank fuck, I think, perhaps Aragorn will have some brilliant idea.

But no.

“I knew – I could tell there was something not right between you,” he says, and – no shit, really? I think, “but – do not speak more of this to me. I am not one to deal with such matters – not one to know how. And to hear of this between you – no, Gimli, this is something you must learn to accept. But remember – for an elf to give love to a mortal is no light thing. If you choose to turn it aside,” he shakes his head grimly, “it may be the end for him.”

Fucks sake.

I bloody know that.

That's what the sodding problem is.

But somehow – you can’t say that to the King.

There’s no-one else here I think I can speak to – all bloody courtiers, and I suppose their assumption would be that what the Prince wants, the Prince gets, only, to be fair, that isn’t his way.

Poor sod – I don’t think he has had much fun out of being the prince.

See – that's the thing – I am fond of him – he’s my best friend, and I do get it, that he has had a rough life, some ways – but – fuck.

Or not.

No. I just – don’t feel that way.

I’m turning away from the King’s tent, when a strange elf comes up to me,

“Master dwarf,” he begins, “I would speak with you a moment – in private.”

I must look dubious, because he adds,

“My name is Erestor – you do not remember me, but I have been named Chief Counsellor of Imladris these many years – my lord Elrond asked me to accompany his foster-son on this first tour of his Kingdom.”

Very well, I think, and I expect to hear some long question about my home, about the skills of dwarves, the price of workmanship, but no.

He leads me away from the camp a little, and then,

“The worst of such – an impromptu settlement – is that there is no such thing as privacy. However, here, I think, we may speak freely. I would crave your pardon, master, for I heard what you spoke of with my lord King – I would, save that I think I may be of more use to you than he.”

What?

Oh. I see.

“Go on, then,” I say, gruffly, embarrassed to have this talked of by so many, but – the difficulty becomes worse, I have to find some words for my poor elf soon.

Erestor looks down at his fingers, and spreads them, then runs the fingers of one hand over the nails of the other – it seems to be a habit with him.

“Thranduilion – Legolas – loves you. You, it seems from your words, are – what you would call very fond – of him. But you do not consider yourself in love with him?”

I nod.

“You do not – you will excuse my Westron – wish to – fuck – with him?”

Oh sweet Durin.

I shake my head.

Erestor nods, slowly, and then,

“He – has given you his comb – is that correct? But not spoken in words?”

I nod again,

“But – I don’t think – it wasn’t a mistake,” I say, “he – oh, fuck, I don’t have the words, but – the way he looks – “ I break off.

Erestor smiles, still looking at his hands, and there is a hint of melancholy in it,

“No, elves are not always skilled with words. We like to say we are, but those of us who spend years training with weapons, concentrating on speed and skill there – well. No matter. However. He is an elf – a Silvan by nature – he loves you, that is plain, and, again, pardon my forwardness, you love him – in a way. He – I doubt he even knows of – fucking. Oh, he may, he may know in theory, he may even – would he have reason to think you have with others?”

Slightly shamefaced, this is not something I was brought up to speak about with strangers, I nod.

“Yes. But – perhaps not the details?”

No. 

Fuck no.

“Well then. What he seeks from you is – intimacy. Affection. Love if you can. The – fucking – is only a way to show it, to him. I doubt very much – elves do not become aroused as easily as mortals. He gives you his comb because he wants you to comb him, braid him, be close and loving with him – not because he wants to – to have you on or in him.”

He pauses, and I – I am silent.

Lost for bloody words.

“Need I be plainer? Would you have it in cruder terms?”

No.

No, I think, I do not want this surprising elf to speak more bluntly.

“So,” he continues, “I suppose – it depends how much your freedom to – “fuck around” – matters to you. If you can give that up, and not miss it, and love him as he wants to be loved, then perhaps – you can rescue this. If not – then you had best tell him, and accept the loss of his company.”

I gasp. 

Shit. 

Legolas – die?

He sees my thought in my face,

“Oh master dwarf, we are not so easily broken as all that. He will not die. He may sail. He will probably retreat to his own people, his woods and trees, but – if you do not want him, that should not be so great a loss to you.”

He waits.

“I think,” I say, slowly, “I think I had best speak to him a little of this. I begin to see – I do love him – not perhaps as much as he would like – and not – not in that way – but I would be – desolate without him.”

Erestor nods.

“Yes. Warriors are not always very quick to see such things,” he says, “sometimes someone has to lead them to the realisation. Sometimes realising what you would miss if it were gone is a pathway to the truth. Good luck, master dwarf, I hope things go well with you both.”

I bow, and as I walk away, I turn, 

“I hope your warrior has missed you, when you go home,” I say, and he nods,

“I am confident he will,” he answers, with a slow smile.

 

 

 

In the end, it is easy enough.

I speak words of kindness, of not understanding, I speak of considering whether we should court, or merely – remain friends. I tell him he is my dearest friend, that I would never hurt him – never mean to hurt him. I even – embrace him – as a friend, but – he seems to like it, and not be urgent for more.

Perhaps this can work.

Somehow.

For indeed – I do not love another. 

And, in the end, to give up his company, or to give up casual fucking – it is not a difficult choice.

To give up casual fucking when he is around, when he will know, that is. After all, I am not a bloody hobbit. What he doesn't know, won’t hurt him.

Shit, I can’t say never again. I’ll just have to be careful.

I only hope he is happy now.

That this is enough for him.

Weird bloody elf that he is.

My weird bloody elf.

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> Whether Gimli is deep in denial, or not, I couldn't say.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This, I do not want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173193) by [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/pseuds/hope91)
  * [This, I can do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216111) by [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus)




End file.
